


gift of the magi

by vol_ctrl



Series: StaticLoveTune Week Series [3]
Category: Hazbin Hotel (Web Series)
Genre: Anniversary, Date Night, Established Relationship, Gift Giving, Love Language, M/M, Morse Code, Romance, Romantic Fluff, Romantic Gestures, Sacrifice, StaticLoveTune Week, Vox Talks Like Max Headroom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-24
Updated: 2020-06-24
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:28:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24901567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vol_ctrl/pseuds/vol_ctrl
Summary: "...  Although husband and wife are now left with gifts that neither one can use, they realize how far they are willing to go to show their love for each other, and how priceless their love really is ..."Alastor/Vox established relationship fluff.
Relationships: Alastor/Vox (Hazbin Hotel)
Series: StaticLoveTune Week Series [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1797553
Comments: 16
Kudos: 114





	gift of the magi

**Author's Note:**

> DAY FOUR: Magic/Technology
> 
> #StaticLoveTuneWeek prompts are [HERE](https://twitter.com/vol_ctrl/status/1273978843804495873?s=20).

What do you get for the demon who has everything? 

Such was the problem that faced Alastor. His anniversary--agreed upon after much debate with his beau about what constituted the beginning of their _relationship_ \--was fast approaching. They had both agreed to mark the occasion with no more than a special dinner. No gifts.

But what were the chances that Vox wouldn’t use the excuse to make some grand gesture? Alastor knew him all too well, and he would not be outdone. No, this called for something beyond even his usual scope.

He sought the counsel of the only demon he could trust in these matters--the only one imbued with more magical prowess than himself aside from the monarchs of Hell: Lord Stolas. 

(Of course he could have consulted Lucifer, but he was well aware that no conversation, much less _deal,_ with the King of Hell was without a caveat. He did not care to gift his lover a monkey’s paw for their anniversary.)

Even with his pragmatic attempt to side-step any undesirable consequences, there was still a price to pay. But an impermanent one. One he was willing to pay for such a singularly special gift that was sure to blow whatever Vox had planned out of the water.

Vox arrived at Alastor’s manor in the usual way--through a cell phone that Alastor kept just beside his home telephone. Vox had foisted the modern contraption upon him after much belly-aching about how the antique electrical wires in the manor gave him a headache when he traveled through them.

“Hz-hx--honey, I’m hz-hx-home,” Vox called from the sitting room.

The announcement was unnecessary. Alastor could feel the familiar change in the air as Vox coalesced from data and electricity, even from a room away. He tapped his wooden spoon on the edge of a pot and awaited Vox’s grand entrance to find him in the kitchen. Surely he would be wearing a fine suit; perhaps even flowers.

Instead, he heard a tussle--a scrape of furniture, a grunt of distorted static, the sound of something highly breakable wobbling from its perch moments from disaster--and then a crash. His ears stiffened at the sound and he swiftly turned his head.

“Shit…” Vox muttered as he crouched down to gather up the lamp he had broken. Alastor turned the corner and Vox tilted his screen up. “Hi.”

Silence.

“Whz-whx-what? Not even a ‘hz-hx-hello’?”

Alastor’s bemused look slowly melted into one of concern. Vox’s screen was… abnormal. Instead of those wild devil eyes Alastor was so used to, the upper portion of his screen was striped in thick vertical bars and broadcast the word: NO SIGNAL.

Vox sighed. “Forget the lamp.” He stood up and brushed off his trousers, offering forth his gift. He had, indeed, brought flowers. “Perhaps thz-thx-this can make up for it,” he boasted.

Alastor strode forward, staring at Vox’s screen. It didn’t appear to be structurally damaged--no cracks in his screen, no warping of the frame. Alastor slowly dragged his eyes away from the visual glitch and instead looked at the flowers. It was a lovely bouquet of Landini lilies, so deep red as to almost be purple. They had no scent--but Vox had no way of knowing that.

In the center of the bouquet was a flower of a different sort--artificial but beautifully rendered in some flexible high-tech material that reflected some shifting, moving image of its petals. Alastor glanced up at Vox.

“We’ll gz-gx-get you a new lamp,” Vox said eagerly. “An _authentic_ one.”

Alastor narrowed his eyes at Vox, then examined the synthetic lily more carefully. As he eased to strange flower from the rest, he felt the more peculiar sensation emanating from it. He couldn’t make heads or tails of most of Vox’s modern little contraptions, and this one fully baffled him. He lifted a brow at Vox.

“I know, I knz-knx-know--you’re speechless,” Vox said with a boastful grin--that part of his screen was still operational. But there was a tremor of hope in his voice. Alastor had been _conspicuously_ silent…

“It’s sz-sx-something I’ve been working on,” he blurted out, unable to bear the silence. “Shz-shx-short range interdimensional transport. Well, lz-lx-long range, as far as dz-dx-distance, but shz-shx-short range in duration…” 

Alastor studied the flower more carefully. It was no mere idle decoration of light and shadow reflected in the petals, but an image. Of slowly moving tree branches hung with webs of moss, of a sky dark and familiar… 

His heart fluttered in his chest. Cogs turned in his brain and he lifted an incredulous look at Vox.

 _You_ **_idiot,_ **he thought as hard as he could.

Vox could feel Alastor’s irritation buzzing in the air. “Hey, hey--don’t get mz-mx-mad at me!” he said defensively, raising his hands in front of himself. “It’s not pz-px-permanent.” He grinned easily, handsomely even with half his screen a technicolor canvas. “Took a lz-lx-little more _jz-jx-juice_ than I could get my hands on. Dz-dx-deadlines and all.” He waved a hand idly toward his mechanical head. “Temporarily bz-bx-borked optics are a small prz-prx-price to pay to get a oz-ox-one of a kind gift for a oz-ox-one of a kind guy.”

Alastor looked at the device. A portal. He was looking at another world in those delicate petals. The Land of the Living. His heart rattled noisily in his ribcage as he slowly looked up at Vox. The smile that softened his face was for _no one’s_ eyes.

Well. That posed a bit of a problem.

Alastor put the flowers aside, placing the precious mechanical lily carefully beside it, then took Vox by the hand.

The media overlord’s smile widened at the touch. “Whz-whx-what are you playing at?” he asked softly. “Giving me the sz-sx-silent treatment?”

Alastor sighed and gave Vox an expectant look as he tapped upon his palm.

.. / --. --- - / -.-- --- ..- / .- / .--. .-. . ... . -. - --..-- / .- ... / .-- . .-.. .-.. .-.-.- (I got you a present as well.)

“... Az-Ax-Alastor, what did you do.”

.. - .----. ... / -. --- - / .--. . .-. -- .- -. . -. - .-.-.- (It’s not permanent.), he replied, and Vox could feel the playful mockery in the tap of his fingers.

“ _Alastor,_ don’t tz-tx-tell me you gz-gx-gave up your voice for--” Vox let out a sigh that started frustrated and ended affectionate.

.. / .-- .- -. - . -.. / -.-- --- ..- / - --- / . -. .--- --- -.-- / -- -.-- / -.-. --- --- -.- .. -. --. / ..-. --- .-. / --- -. -.-. . .-.-.- (I wanted you to enjoy my cooking for once.)

“I always enjoy your cooking.”

-.-- --- ..- / ... .- -.-- / .. - / .- .-.. .-.. / - .- ... - . ... / --- ..-. / .- ... .... .-.-.- (You say it all tastes of ash.)

“That’s not _yz-yx-your_ fault.” Vox squeezed Alastor’s fingers, his grin wrought sweet on his screen. “Ez-ex-everything tastes like ash.”

Alastor peered up at him, an impish smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

.. / .... --- .--. . / -.-- --- ..- .----. .-.. .-.. / ... - .. .-.. .-.. / . -. .--- --- -.-- / .. - .-.-.- (I hope you’ll still enjoy it.)

“What is iz-ix-it?” Vox asked. He couldn’t imagine what could be worth Alastor sacrificing his voice, even temporarily.

-.-. --- -- . / .- -. -.. / ... . . .-.-.- (Come and see.) Alastor squeezed Vox’s hand, then tugged him gently along, leading him. Vox seemed to be picking up enough data through his system so he wasn’t completely helpless and blind as he followed, but the lack of visual was clearly a detriment.

Vox was always absorbing things through his sight--watching things. It was how he consumed the world; a sensory input so very dear to him. Alastor was fraught with an awful ache in his heart; not hurt, but of a fondness that filled him so entirely he thought he might burst. It was untenable. What a horrible, awful man, to make him feel such a thing.

He led Vox into a room filled with a stench of death and masked with smoke. Vox could pick up none of these things, but he knew exactly which room Alastor had brought him into.

“Uh-oz-ox-oh. You’re not gonna sz-sx-sacrifice the rest of me for thz-thx-this, are you?” he asked.

.. - / -- .. --. .... - / .... ..- .-. - .-.-.- (It might hurt.) Alastor tapped before he let go of Vox’s hand.

“Reassuring.”

Alastor summoned his microphone staff and used the kohl at the end to scrawl the correct veve around Vox’s feet. Before he completed the sigils, he tapped on Vox’s shoulder. ... - .- -.-- / ... - .. .-.. .-.. .-.-.- (Stay still.)

For once, Vox was silent.

Alastor scratched in the last of the design about Vox’s feet, then twirled his staff to bring the sharpened kohl tip to his fingers. With a sedate prick of his flesh and a smudge of the stain to his fingers, he reached forward to draw a symbol upon Vox’s screen. Another twirl of his staff, and he gave the veve a tap.

The room swirled with an ominous green. It melded with blue and red, swirling with an unnatural wind that whipped coattails and apron strings. The light spread through the room, then condensed and shot right into Vox’s screen.

Alastor tensed for a moment as the device seemed to crack. But it was not a physical crack--it was a shatter in the very space Vox occupied, a split in the shell of his form. The air became very still. Still enough that Alastor could hear the outer layers of Vox falling away and disintegrating to nothing.

And what was left behind… Nothing short of breathtaking.

“... Can I--” Vox’s words stuck in his throat and every muscle in his body tensed. “Can I move now?”

Alastor dismissed his staff and took Vox by the hands, leading him from the pattern on the floor.

Vox’s hands flew from Alastor’s and lifted to his--to his _face._ He felt frantically--skin and muscle and bone, not plastic and glass, not static, not electricity. Flesh and blood. He felt along his jawline with a breathless gasp of rapture. A dry sob heaved from his throat as he ran his fingers over his scalp and found _hair._

Alastor watched the media overlord absolutely beside himself in silent awe. _This_ was gift enough. To see Vox’s face--his true, honest-to-Satan _face_ \--as he experienced having it for the first time in decades.

“I--” Vox looked around, but still lacked any visual input. He cursed aloud, laughed wild and manic, and fumbled for Alastor, found his arms. “ _Gift of the_ fucking _Magi_ bullshit _\--_ ” he gasped furiously, laughing bitterly. “Well--how do I look?”

Even if Alastor hadn’t temporarily given away his voice, he would have been momentarily speechless. He lifted his hands slowly, taking his lover by the cheeks. He brushed his thumb over his pronounced cheekbone, traced the strong line of his jaw, tucked a strand of thick, dark hair behind his ear.

He answered him not with words or a tapped message to his skin, but with a kiss. Vox moaned a bone-deep sound of ecstasy against Alastor’s lips, anchoring the radio demon to him with strong, long-fingered hands on his cheeks.

Alastor felt a tongue against his lips and he pulled back before Vox could get too carried away. He slid his hands down Vox’s neck and tapped a small reply against his collar. ...- . .-. -.-- / .... .- -. -.. ... --- -- . .-.-.- (Very handsome.)

But Vox remained just a breath away from his lips. He could _feel_ Vox’s breath on his lips. Vox wrapped his arms around him, feeling him with hands different than those usual dangerous claws, but no less demanding.

“Alastor…” Vox whispered like a benediction, kissing him again with so much gratitude it almost consumed him. His lips didn’t stop there. They sought out more of Alastor to kiss, over his cheek and toward his neck, each press of lips a little thank you.

Alastor gripped Vox’s neck with a bite of claws and it was enough to still him--or at least _slow_ him. -.-- --- ..- .----. .-.. .-.. / ... .--. --- .. .-.. / -.-- --- ..- .-. / .- .--. .--. . - .. - . .-.-.- (You’ll spoil your appetite.) he tapped distractedly.

“Little chance of that,” Vox breathed against his throat, grinning as he felt Alastor’s frequencies fluttering like his pulse.

-.. .. -. -. . .-. / ..-. .. .-. ... - .-.-.- (Dinner first.) Alastor insisted.

“Oh, forget dinner,” Vox growled. Alastor frowned and was about to shove Vox back more forcefully, but the man broke from the embrace first. “I’m taking you to Cafe du Monde!”

 _Now?_ Alastor said--or tried to say, but nothing came out.

Vox’s hands fumbled for Alastor’s, that brand new memory of a face assailed with a grin of brilliant teeth.

-.. --- -. .----. - / -.-- --- ..- / .-- .- -. - / - --- / ... . . ..--.. (Don’t you want to see?) Alastor barely managed to tap with his thumb along the back of Vox’s tight grip.

“I didn’t even think I would be able to go with you,” Vox gushed. “But now--” His hands flew up to find Alastor’s face. In his blind excitement, he wielded his hands like clubs and Alastor deftly stepped out of the way, eyes narrowed in annoyance. Vox nearly stumbled, but he was undeterred and instead redirected his hands back to his own face with a breathless laugh.

Alastor had never seen Vox so excited. He didn’t think the media overlord could _be_ any more obnoxious. But this was also a side of Vox so raw and honest, Alastor couldn’t help but be the tiniest bit amused. Vox cultivated his persona, performed only what he wanted to be seen. _This_ was the Vox that no one else saw. A desperate, manic, mood-prone man enslaved to his own vanity. A frenetic whirlwind of chaos and whim. The bristling electric brilliance to complement his own dark, swirling madness.

“How long will this last?” Vox asked Alastor. He had moved on from touching his face to run his hands through and through his hair.

Alastor crossed his arms over his chest, waiting for Vox to recall that he couldn’t vocalize.

“No, no--don’t tell me,” he said with a sudden change of heart, barely giving Alastor a beat to respond.

Alastor rolled his eyes.

“Come on, there’s no time to waste,” Vox insisted. “Take off that apron and put on your coat.”

Alastor sighed silently and walked toward his manic partner. He stilled him with a touch--stroked his hair back into place. He couldn’t feel that usual thrum of electrical current under his skin. Just flesh and blood. It gave him pause; and for a moment, Vox was absolutely still. Aside from his fluttering heartbeat-- _that_ Alastor could feel even from just the touch to his temple.

Alastor drank in the sensation. His tongue felt heavy in his mouth. Not from his inability to speak, but from a hunger that blood-thick pulse coursing through the man stirred within him.

Finally, he withdrew his deft fingers from Vox’s brow and gave him a little pat on the chest--wordless agreement to his proposal.

“How’d I do?”

Alastor was rendered speechless for the second time that evening--the third time if you counted not having his voice to begin with.

Vox squeezed Alastor’s hand. “I can’t read lips right now, y’know,” he said impatiently.

Alastor dug his nails into Vox’s hand in response, irritated by Vox’s unwillingness to _shut up_ for a moment in his damned afterlife. Not the first time, and certainly not to be the last.

Vox grit his teeth, but took the hint and made an effort to keep his mouth shut.

The street was crowded. Not with people--by some miracle, they had arrived in the Land of the Living some time after the evening tourists and some time before the midnight ones--but with buildings. Lights and cars glittered even in the dusky hour. It looked nothing like the French Market he remembered. His eyes watered from the assault of the senses, the conflict of memory and reality.

Finally, he peered over at Vox. That familiar-unfamiliar face was tipped down, smiling at nothing in particular, trying very hard to be patient. His chest ached. It was a feeling he had grown accustomed to, but still loathed. His nails bit into Vox’s hand once more.

The slow, purposeful curl of Alastor’s nails brought Vox’s blind gaze to turn toward him.

.. - .----. ... / .--- ..- ... - / .- ... / .. / .-. . -- . -- -... . .-. / .. - .-.-.- (It’s just as I remember it.) Alastor lied.

Vox’s eager grin bloomed. “The march of progress hasn’t gone and ruined it?” he asked.

The green and white awning was the same. The sign above had a purposefully aged look to it, but had not been greatly altered. The lettering was meticulously accurate. There was a veneer of modernity to it all that soured the sight.

.. - .----. ... / .--. . .-. ..-. . -.-. - .-.-.- (It’s perfect.) Alastor tapped out honestly against Vox’s warm hand.

The late hour made it blessedly easy to get a table at the cafe.

“And I thought Hell was hot,” Vox muttered as he tugged at the collar of his shirt.

Alastor sat across from a man he hardly recognized under the trademark awning of a cafe he had, truthfully, only visited a handful of times in life--he preferred a lesser known coffee shop on the waterfront--that had become a tourist destination in a town that had grown up without him.

But some things never changed. The coffee was still hot and strong. The air was still thick and heavy, still stank of the Mississippi waters and carried the je ne sais quoi of home. Vox was still insufferable, rambling at an even keel about nothing in particular, filling up the air left vacant by Alastor’s missing voice.

“... We really are a pair, huh?” Vox seemed to have finally run his course.

Alastor relished the welcome silence that hung between them, if but for a moment.

“Go to all the trouble of getting a pass to the Land of the Living, can’t hear you go on about it. You go to all the trouble of…” His smile waxed soft. “... _This_ … Can’t even see it.” He let out a frustrated sigh. “Some anniversary.”

-. --- - / - .... . / .--. --- .. -. - / --- ..-. / .----. - .... . / --. .. ..-. - / --- ..-. / - .... . / -- .- --. .. .-.-.- .----. (Not the point of ‘The Gift of the Magi.’) Alastor tapped out quietly on the edge of his saucer.

“No. I s’ppose it’s not.” Vox smiled. He reached across the table and found one of Alastor’s hands, insisting upon holding it. “What was the point again?” he asked, playing the fool.

Alastor squeezed Vox’s hand with a loving threat. He let the question hang in the air unanswered.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! You can find more over on my Twitter: [@vol_ctrl](https://twitter.com/vol_ctrl)!


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